


the life we lose through forgetfulness

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Amnesia, Gen, because my robb feels get everywhere, i don't even know if this is au, post-red wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It’s been seven years, since the man calling himself Rickard Snow dragged himself to her inn’s doorstep, bleeding from what seemed like half a hundred arrow wounds and half-mad with fever."</i>
</p>
<p>In which there is an inn somewhere in the riverlands, and a familiar face with an unfamiliar name. Oh, and Tyrion wants a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the life we lose through forgetfulness

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically--first real attempt at playing around in ASOIAF that isn't a coffeeshop AU, and it turns out to have amnesia in it. I'm torn between feeling proud of myself and wanting to continue it, and feeling really ashamed and wanting to shove my head into the sand.
> 
> Also, I may have fudged up the geography a bit. In the name of things making _some_ sense, anyway. There's got to be more than one inn in the riverlands, right?
> 
> And, by the way, I cannot stress this enough: SPOILERS. If you haven't read ASOS (and AFFC and ADWD) and want to remain unspoiled, TURN BACK NOW. Seriously.

Sometimes she wonders, about him.

It’s been seven years, since the man calling himself Rickard Snow dragged himself to her inn’s doorstep, bleeding from what seemed like half a hundred arrow wounds and half-mad with fever. It’s been six since the winter came, by which time the man had made himself useful and helped build up provisions, and yet, Della still doesn’t know a thing about him.

Which is to be expected. He doesn’t seem to know a thing about himself either.

What they do know is gleaned from generalizations and observations and guesses. She’s certain he was a soldier of some sort, fighting for one of the five kings, and she’s also certain he fought for the King in the North at some point—obvious, since he’s from the north. Beyond that she’s not so sure, and neither is he, but the story they come up with is good enough for the both of them.

But she still wonders, sometimes.

One time she asks him, about what he remembers.

“Snow,” he tells her, cleaning up what few tables have been used. “I remember snow. Not much else.”

She thinks he’s lying—after all, she’s heard him, screaming and sobbing in the other room when they’ve retired for the night—and she says, “Really?”

“I know I was a soldier,” he says. “And I know I’ve seen things that you’re better off not knowing.”

It’s subtle, but she hears it all the same— _don’t ask me what I remember._ Wisely, though not without some regret, she desists. Some things, she knows, should stay unremembered, but for bloody nightmares in the dark and healed-over scars in the daylight.

It doesn’t stop her from wondering about him sometimes, still.

—

He doesn’t tell Della everything, but sometimes he thinks she knows enough. After all, it’s likely he wasn’t the first soldier she’d seen over the course of the war, though he was probably the first one to stay around and help.

He remembers snow, the way it crunched underneath his feet, what kind of snow is best for a snowball, the feeling of warmth in the bitter cold. He can dimly recall laughter, someone asking him if he can’t throw any better, and beyond that, it’s a blurry haze.

But at the same time, he remembers blood. He remembers screaming, pain blossoming everywhere, remembers the sound of drums and the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and _please please no gods no_ —

It’s always at that point that he wakes up.

She never really says anything, in the mornings afterward. But he knows she’s heard him scream in the night, and after the one time she asks him if he remembers, she doesn’t bring it up again.

He’s grateful to her for that, somewhat. And everything else she’s done since he dragged himself to her inn that night seven years ago as well.

For the most part, he’s managed to keep himself from thinking about his past, vague as it is. Still, sometimes he can’t help but wonder.

—

It’s been a long day’s ride, and Tyrion just wants a bed to sleep in, some wine to drink, and if he’s lucky, a woman with a good mouth and a lovely set of teats. He’s willing to settle for the former two, though.

When he voices this opinion out loud to Orys, the sellsword just snorts and agrees with him, but points out that they haven’t seen an inn besides the Inn of the Kneeling Man a day or so ago and Queen Sansa is waiting and also they are completely lost, though if the dwarf somehow spies an inn he wouldn’t be opposed to sleeping in it for the night.

It takes three hours, though, before Tyrion sees something.

“Well, now,” he remarks, “do mine own eyes deceive me, or is that an inn I see?”

“Definitely an inn,” Orys grunts.

“And I recall,” Tyrion continues on, “that you and I have the same wish of sleeping without fear of frostbite.”

“Good memory,” Orys mutters. “You’ve convinced me.”

So Tyrion rides on ahead, dismounting his horse and tying him to the remains of a stable, then waddles on and knocks on the inn’s door.

He has to wait for a moment before someone answers, and by then Orys has dismounted and walked over as well. He has no doubt the sellsword’s enjoying the look on the blonde wench’s face when she opens the door and sees the two of them there.

“M-M’lord,” she stammers, stepping aside to let them both in. “It’s—it’s such an honor—”

“Oh, don’t pretend,” Tyrion sighs, hopping up onto a chair. “By any chance, do you have wine? Strongwine would be most preferable, but I’ll take anything as long as it’s some kind of liquor.”

“And beds,” Orys adds, settling into the chair across him.

“I’ll see to it, m’lord,” the girl says, her voice a little high, then rushes off, shouting for someone named Rickard to wake up, they’ve _guests_ to serve.

It’s a few moments later that Orys says, “Gods be _good_ ,” in the sort of tone that suggests something bad is going to happen, and Tyrion has only ever, in the three months or so that they’ve been acquaintances (and he will not call them _friends_ , he knows Orys and his like far too well), heard that tone twice. The first time, they’d almost gotten attacked by a wight at the Wall, and it was Jon Snow’s intervention that saved them. The second was Euron Crow’s Eye and his dragon-binding horn, the bloody fool, and Tyrion squashes the memory every time it comes bubbling up to the surface.

He looks up, and for the first time in a long, long while, can’t find his voice.

“My lord,” Robb Stark greets him, looking rather alive, for someone who’s been dead seven years. Immediately Tyrion rules out the possibility of wights, because the man is carrying wine over to their table and pouring out two cups each, and not trying to kill them. It still leaves the possibility of red priests or necromancers, though.

“You’re looking rather well for a dead man,” he remarks, and Stark’s brow furrows.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

“He said you’re looking well, for a dead man,” Orys helpfully provides, and damn, the man’s drunk half his cup already.

“Yes, Orys, thank you for repeating what I just said,” Tyrion mutters, then, to Stark, “Tell me, what was it that brought you back? I’m quite curious.”

“My lord,” Stark says, “I wasn’t brought back. For that to happen I would have to be dead first.” There’s something in his eyes, though, something that looks very much like confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Don’t think so,” Orys says. “I’ve seen the King in the North before, and if you think you can fool me, you’re a bigger a fool than Florian. Not even bothering to dye your hair the way your sister did, and you still expect us to believe you?” He punctuates this with another drink, and looks vaguely puzzled when he empties the cup.

“My drunken friend has a point,” Tyrion remarks, taking his own sip. “I myself have had the pleasure of actually meeting King Robb, though he was simply Lord of Winterfell at the time, and I have to say, there’s very little difference between you and him.” _Save, of course, for the haunted look._

“Your drunken friend’s mind has been addled by the wine,” Stark coldly tells him. “As far as I know, Robb Stark died at the Twins, seven years ago.”

“That he did,” Tyrion allows, “but the dead have walked before.”

“My head is still attached,” Stark counters, and damn, that’s a good point, but before Tyrion can open his mouth he continues, “Now, my lord, I’m tired. Ask Della to take you and your friend to your rooms when you’re done, I’ve a need to sleep.”

He stalks off, and now that Tyrion’s looking, he can tell that the man is limping, somewhat, favoring his left slightly more than his right. Arrows will do that to you.

He wonders just how his former wife, the Queen in the North, will react, if he tells her about this.

He'll need more wine, for certain.


End file.
